


nyctophobia: fear of darkness

by backstage_rebel_girl (song_takemehome)



Series: enamored with monsters [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: F/M, Fear to Love, Horror, Human/Monster Romance, Monster - Freeform, Monster Boyfriend, Monster Romance, Other, Romance, Sexual Content, Teratophilia, Wraith, Xenophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-13
Updated: 2019-01-22
Packaged: 2019-09-17 18:13:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16979418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/song_takemehome/pseuds/backstage_rebel_girl
Summary: a seemingly harmless blackout proves to be an experience you have never considered existing beyond horror films. within the darkness, there lurks a monster, and it ensues a morbid game of tormenting you while vulnerable.





	1. Chapter 1

Nichole has taken the liberty of your phone passcode to snap an atrocious selfie and appoint it as her own contact portrait. Truth be told, you don’t have the heart nor incentive to change it. It had taken time to ignore the scrutiny thrown your way, many times which consisted of ducking out of vicinity and of the like. At least her ringtone compensates for the source of embarrassment and entertainment. The wistful chorus of Patrick Swayze’s “She’s Like the Wind” echoes through the wood of your nightstand. It’s tempting to ignore her call, especially since it’s already 11 p.m. on the night before a breakfast date with Mom.

Before deciding to answer her, you rid your mouthful of minty froth and smear on an even coat of face clay, allowing the chorus to play twice more, both times you sing along to. Either someone is dying on her end or she’s drunk, neither reason serving as good intention to call you. Once finished, you amble into your room and flounce on your bed with all the flourish of a tired individual.

“Babe, the bridal shower is next week, and I _still_ haven’t got a dress!” she says the instant the call connects.

The volume of her voice makes you grimace, her dilemma more so. Familiar with her procrastination tendencies, you aren’t as surprised as the next person would be. In no way does it lessen the degree of the problem, sadly. You determine how you’ll fare in the morning if the call hypothetically escalates past an hour.

Picking dirt from your nails, you ask, “Please tell me you have potential selections?”

The white, digital numbers of your alarm clock continue ticking closer to midnight as she sends you pictures of dresses she modeled in earlier that afternoon and lists off the pros and cons she’s found with each. You would make this task easier on the both of you with physical moral support, and by that you mean you would have forced her to buy one before the trip, but Nichole is out of state for her sister’s special event, and you happened to deplete your slot of vacation days for the year. After some back and forth bickering, you finally convince Nichole to narrow it down to a few dresses. With a vow to get back to you when she decides on the winning dress, the two of you exchange an “I love you” and “goodnight”.

Sliding out of bed, you make way to the bathroom and rinse off the crusted paste of your now creased face mask with lukewarm water. Once cleansed, you clear excess droplets from your eyes with a single wipe and freeze when pitch blackness greets you. Your heart thrashes for a second. After experimental flicks of the light switch, it's obvious the power is out. This aspect isn’t entirely surprising; it’s been raining all day, the menacing storm threatening to down the roof with the harsh pelting. You’ll just have to make do without charging your phone tonight or an alarm.

Blinded helpless, you use your outstretched hands to inch through the dark, hoping to not stub your toe on anything. By a miracle, you find your way to your door, fingers touching the worn wood.

 _Did I…close the door?_ You pause, filing through recent memories. _I know I left it open._ Not willing to ponder the oddness of it all right now, you settle for blaming the blackout for disorienting you.

That night, you have a peculiar dream about a spectral figure hovering at a fair distance. You may be standing in the abyss of your thoughts, but you feel oppressed just by looking at the figure. It looks to be a lean, masculine silhouette draped in a hooded robe that sways to a nonexistent breeze and falls in misty tendrils. You dare a look inside the hood to see a clean slate face void of details. Chills prickle through your nerves. He doesn’t have any distinctive features, but you feel eyes gouging you, and it leaves you rigid in trepidation. You wake up to your table lamp casting a disc on your ceiling.

Breakfast with Mom is pleasant, Nichole falls in love with the perfect dress, your phone can charge throughout the night, and there’s no dream of the apparition.

Tuesday evening, your lights flicker dead while you’re cooking dinner. It lasts but a few seconds, and in those handful of seconds you swear the air ices over, but it’s gone just as quick as the waning of the electricity. By Friday, you begin to contemplate calling maintenance to inspect for any issues with your apartment. You bring it up with the other tenants and are alarmed when they report no trouble with their power. When you do decide to call maintenance, they report nothing out of the ordinary. The electrician reassures you he will return if you begin experiencing actual problems. You can see he doesn’t appreciate his time being wasted, but he’s polite enough to not say what’s on his mind. His visit leaves you bitter for more than one reason.

You find yourself washing off face clay over your sink for another night. When your eyes open, the light is on; however—you glance into the mirror, see that black character from your dream and vault yourself to the side in a panic. You tumble from your haste, clashing down to the glossed tiles with your heart pounding in your ears. Of course, no one’s there. People imagine ‘things’ from the edge of their eyes all the time from paranoia, but this disturbs you on spiking levels. It shouldn’t unnerve you this much, you tell yourself, and yet you race into the safety of your bedroom and slam the door shut. The image is burned into your eyelids, whether they’re closed or not.

A week passes, each night projecting that damned phantom who does nothing but watch you. Last night was different, though. You dream, and he isn’t there. He hasn’t proven to be a threat in past dreams, but you can’t brush off the layering fear after the mirror episode. Every which way you look, movements slowed to that of limbs swinging under the density of water. A certain trace of desperation urges you to locate the shadow cutout. You aren’t sure how the notion birthed, the idea that you’ve become the sheep in a hunt, but it’s there.

 _Here_.

You pivot around just as the blackness lunges at you, and you jolt awake screaming. Shaken by the nightmare, you remain fastened to your bed until well into the noon.

It storms again, this time more rageful than the last. You tense, holding your phone in a cartilage-white grip when an especially powerful thunder splits the silent sky far too close. The apartment tremors, your glassware tinkling to the movement. A week has slipped by since that horrendous nightmare. Thankfully, you haven’t been plagued by anymore aside that one. To distract yourself from the storm, you peruse the channels for anything eye-catching. Unsurprisingly, the TV cuts off and dark swallows you whole.

A brief note of panic assaults your chest, a cowardly reaction you will away with a struggle. You can’t help falling victim to fear, no matter how severe you berate yourself for being ridiculous. What is a little darkness going to do to you?

Steeling your nerves, you snatch up your phone, turn the flashlight on, and go hunt down for a candle you remember seeing in one of the kitchen drawers. You locate it with quick success, gathering the untouched stick into one hand. You could have sworn there was a lighter in there somewhere, too. It’s apparent you can’t search for said item with both your hands occupied. You set the candle on the kitchen counter and rummage through the drawer a second time. Just as your fingers wrap around the lighter, the waxen rod rolls right off and onto the floor with a startling clatter.

You determine you can be as young as five or as old as fifty, and you’ll still be uncomfortable with the dark. Long ago, you established there was nothing to fear but the invented creatures you yourself conjured, but you also learned how dangerous imagination could be. It’s what led you to cower under the false safety of your blanket as a child and to avoid the ominous alleys tainted by horrific stories as an adult. At this moment, however, you have every right to be afraid. The past days have pushed you further toward the edge, and you’re waiting when you might fall into the chasm of whatever it is that has been persistently haunting you.

It takes a moment to ease your throbbing heart. As you crouch to retrieve the dropped candle, you detect the weight of another presence in the room with you. There’s a subtle shift in the air that seems to be making room for the second being. You notice the beam of artificial light quivering and realize it’s because you’re shaking. You want to cast the light around the kitchen to see if you can catch a glimpse of anything at all, but you’re stricken frozen by fear. The moment passes, and you scoff for believing you’re in any possible danger. Just as a safety measure, you pan the kitchen with your meager light source. Of course, there’s nothing to jump out at you.

You gather your senses, the materials and make leave for your room. Once alight by the candle, you settle into bed and dive into the fictional world of the novel in your hands. You aren’t aware of how much time has passed, fully immersed with the story playing out in your mind, but a faint sound harshly extracts you from the book. You’re overcome with stillness, ears honing onto the distinctive thud.

These walls are known for giving tenants the privacy they need; thus, you shouldn't be able to hear your neighbors unless they directly pound on the separating plaster. The neighbors on the left are currently out of town for the week and the neighbor on the right is a sleeper so heavy you think he could snore through the fire alarm.

Fear and curiosity can go hand in hand; however, the two are warring for the chance to influence your choices of either exploring or hiding. You don't understand how the silence has suddenly become eerie, but it's enough confirmation to allow fear to win. You discard exploring and eagerly hole into the haven of your bed. The candle won't last the night, maybe until you fall asleep if you aren't overwhelmed by apprehension. Remaining in bed seems the less evil of the two choices, but you’re rolling around in the festering thoughts of the worst-case scenario. You should have grabbed a knife when you had the chance.

 _Oh, come on. What's to be afraid of? Ghosts?_ You laugh, a forced laugh at that. A minute goes by. _Fine. I'll just look around to prove there's nothing that can hurt me._ Resolve cemented, you peel away from your blanket and grab the lit candle for your journey, notably ignoring your jittering nerves that make you tremble.

As soon as you peek into the short hallway, whispers of cool air wash over you, setting off a shudder or two. The flame restricts your view to a mere foot radius, giving you the impression of being stuck in a claustrophobic sphere. You leave your door cracked and take a confident step forth. Immediately, that same chill swipes at your spine. You can’t decide if it’s terror painting the horrific thought of a lone finger tracing up your back or not. Regardless, you jump so hard you’re surprised your bones aren’t broken at the joints.

 _What the fuck was that?_ you think, flattening to a wall as if it might decrease your vulnerability by a smidgen _. Stupid Victor and his stupid horror movie nights._ Yet as you throw the blame on your friend, you know better: you just need something tangible to fault, something you know that can be a rational factor to your delusions. But your instincts won't allow you to deny that you aren’t living a fantasy moment, you’re not suffering the side effects of a jump-scare film.

The dark is crawling all over you, seeping into your skin, and dragging you deeper into a thick pool of dread. The steady heat fails as a source of comfort; rather, it seems to be laughing at you. Just then, the mini fire sputters, dancing a chaotic pattern, like someone has walked by.

There’s something inside with you.

Ice skims along your cheek and the candle tumbles from your hands. The dark devours you up, leaving you cold and on the brink of going mad with fear. Quickly, you fall to your knees to search for the candle. You know you aren’t alone but can’t pinpoint how or why, you only know. The figure from your dream comes to mind, and a broken whimper escapes your lips. And then the hairs of your arm stand. You used to think of it as ants navigating underneath your clothes, but it isn’t ants this time, it's a hand running along your limb.

_Right here._

You bolt. The slam of your door is so loud, you expect the entire complex to shake. You clamber for your blanket, hurry to light the candle, and wedge yourself into a corner. There you remain, eyes refusing to close. Seconds, minutes, hours, and the thud resounds again. It begins distance, stops at your door, and disappears altogether. The longer you sit there, the more the fear augments to a staggering degree, yet nothing has plowed through the door and attacked you. You refuse to break free from your stiff position, though, staying perched where you are.

You don’t know when you fall back asleep or how you gave in to the need, but the moment of peace is broken by a third pound. The most recharge you gained was by hovering just beneath the first layer of unconsciousness. Instantly, you notice that the candle has gone out. Reaching for your phone, you turn the flashlight on again. Initially, the first thing you notice is the low battery percentage, and then the time (1 a.m.), but once you look to your nightstand, you almost drop your phone.

The candlestick is burned only half way through. It's impossible for it to drown and extinguish in its own pool of wax, because it's a lone stick supported by a holder. Your windows aren’t opened to invite a draft, and you know your sleeping habits as well as Mom does, so you had no play in blowing the flame out. Someone did, something thing.

You hear a soft touch, pulling your attention back to the door. You imagine a palm pressing into the wood. Not a second later, the handle twists ever so slowly. For some inexplicable reason, you can't move, helplessly watching as the handle turns all the way to unlatch. Any moment now, you wait for the door to slam open. It doesn’t. It remains twisted. And then, as if the hand holding it in its place has let go, it abruptly turns back without warning. You fling to the wall you’re already embedded to. As afraid as you are, frustration sidles up to your mind, and possible anger.

“What do you want?” you ask, voice tight.

The handle turns slow, the door opens, and it closes the door just as softly. A cry croaks from your throat from witnessing an invisible force committing the action. Gentle steps travel across the floorboards to you. The bed sinks, and you cry harder.

“What do you want?!”

That same figure from your dreams manifests right before your eyes, ripping a gasp from you.

_“You.”_

Cold, hands latch onto your ankles to yank you forward and you shriek—

“Babe!” Nichole is shaking you awake, her face creased in concern.

You’re gulping for air, desperately clawing at your bedding. After you calm down some, you grab onto Nichole to reassure yourself she’s real. You think about those hands on your ankles. They felt just as real as the woman before you. A single sob falls from your mouth, leading to uncontrollable weeping, prompting your friend to support you to her chest. She holds you without a word.

You tell her you’ve been having nightmares but don’t specify them, afraid Nichole will suffer the same fate if she knows. You treat it as a curse. It takes some effort on your side to convince your friend you’ll be fine. She leaves, albeit reluctantly, only because you’ve promised to call her if anything happens. You almost kick her out, so she won’t be late for work. She only came by to retrieve her charger she left when crashing the night the previous day.

You can’t decide if you’re glad or not that she doesn’t live with you. The two of you roomed together after graduating college, but as soon as Nichole nabbed a boyfriend, you wanted out. You wouldn’t mind sharing a living space with them if it came down to it; Victor was good and played the older brother you never had. You just don’t want to invade their relationship. Nichole took it hard. According to her, you came first before Victor, but you knew how much she loved him.

Your random thoughts skid to a halt when you return to your bedroom and zero your attention onto the candle still on your nightstand. Burned only halfway through. In a bout of boiling rage and terror, you swipe it away. It hits the wall and cracks in two. Nothing makes sense. Are you going insane? Are you being haunted? You’ve never had any reason to believe in the supernatural in the past, but that idea is becoming more likely. This is out of your league. Tears shed again. For a moment, you think a salted globule has been wiped away by a finger.

That evening, you force yourself into a tub of scalding, sudsy water, attempting anything to ease your mind, because you still believe it’s all part of your imagination. You shut away the world, focusing on the rhythmic strokes of the bath loofah dragging along your limbs. Some time during the process, ghostly hands join in. You stop, and it stops.

 _It’s fake, it’s just fake,_ you chant, scrubbing harder until your skin becomes red.

When you dream this night, the apparition is there. This time, he disappears. Alarmed, you seek for him, afraid he might harm you. Just as sudden, he reemerges behind you. You buck, but he holds you steady.

“Please, don’t hurt me!” you cry.

“Hurt you?” he whispers, a wispy sort of sound with an echoing quality. He constricts his embrace harder, eliciting a grunt. “You’ve already done that to yourself,” he continues, attesting the statement by soothing touches down your scrubbed raw arms.

If you weren’t so afraid, you might have thought he was genuinely worried for you. The sweet wickedness in his words is nothing short of mockery.

“No, I have far more different intents for you.”

One moment, you’re in his arms, another moment, you’re being thrown to the floor. You can’t feel pain, just the pressure. Regardless, you become dazed by the impact. The figure looms over you with an unseen smile. You don’t have the chance to scramble away, losing that opportunity by hesitating. He pounces on you, and you fight.

“Shh, I won’t hurt you.” He testifies by caressing you with the touch of a lover, gliding through your hair, down your throat, along your curves.

The gentleness stuns you, and he takes advantage of your moment of lapse. His cool hands roam everywhere, coercing inevitable pleasure. You don’t know what he’s doing to you, if anything at all, only that each touch is pulling out the desire from you, compelling you to feel it whether you want to or not. The conflict tangles your mind: should you give in or should you fight it? The harder you resist, the more pleasure the being seems to invoke. You wake up in a sweat, gasping, and not quite reaching an orgasm. You scour the wetness with such severity the chafe of your panties irritates your raw labia the entire day.

The erotic dreams persist, beginning with heavy petting and escalating to humiliating sessions of finding the shaded being buried face first between your thighs. Not before long, they intensify to phantom touches out of dreamland but strictly after the sky is dark (he never makes an appearance until then). The second time he touches you while you’re awake, you’re doing laundry. His hands cup your waist, grasping your skin underneath your shirt, and traces his fingers up to tease the lining of your bra. He leaves, but not before kissing your tailbone.

You call an exorcist; he fails to find the smallest traces of any hauntings, although blesses you with a prayer before taking leave. The words spill in one ear and out the other. The second exorcist concludes with the same results as the first.

“Don’t make me leave,” he whispers after you bid the exorcist goodbye.

You whirl on him, and any nasty words you want to spit dissolves at discovering his invading proximity. Your breath hits against his mannequin face, echoing the warmth back to you.

“Oh, don’t be afraid. Haven’t we met before, once upon a dream?”

You grow stiff hearing the quote from _Sleeping Beauty_ you watched yesterday. “Why are you doing this to me?” you ask in a brittle voice, brimming with mental exhaustion and anguish, because you’ve given up.

He falters from the question, sensing the loss of fight within you. “I’m alone, so alone. I have nothing and no one,” he drifts around you in a melancholic circle, like a drapery shifting in murky waters, “I don’t remember who I am, but I know I’ve done evil, which makes me what I am. I suppose not all of it has withered away. I won’t deny that I find it thrilling to torment you. Your fear is exhilarating and so delicious.”

You can’t see the twisted smile he grants you, but you feel it there, and it makes you weep.

“However,” he swoops down to gather you into his phantom arms, somehow carrying you into the air, the shadow cloak wrapping around and pulling you further into the being, “your tears also make me sad,” he says, streaking the wetness away with his cheek. “Why is that? Why does your pain excite me and make me ache at once? Tell me.”

You struggle uselessly in his strangely comforting arms. “I don’t know,” you say, feet kicking above the floor. “Please, put me down.” You strain your face away when he tries to wipe your tears again.

His chest heaves, as if he’s huffed with resignation. “Fine.”

In a whirlwind of blurred colors, the phantom whisks the both of you to your bed in a mere blink. It takes you a second to regain your bearings, a spell of dizziness disarming you. You come eye-to-eye with the ceiling, soon replaced with the hooded face and come to a horrific realization of the compromising position he twists you into. You try wrestling free from his weight aligning with the plane of your body.

“Don’t push me away. You’ve been enjoying your dreams so far, and this isn’t any different,” he says against your lobe. You will never understand how he can speak without a mouth.

Shame burns your face. “You’ve been forcing them on me! I can’t help what my body reacts to. If you hit me, I can’t pretend it doesn’t hurt,” you grit out, wincing from the tightness of his constricting embrace.

“I know, I know it all. Stop closing yourself from me—”

Both of you freeze at the startling sound of the front door opening. You’re about to scream for Nichole, but the apparition vanishes into nothing. Said friend stumbles into your room and pauses.

“Are you okay?” she asks, walking to you.

“Yeah, just, I thought I saw a mouse,” you lie.

Her face scrunches up. “You better call for extermination just in case. Anyway, I know I should have sent you a text beforehand, but wanna grab a drink?”

You agree. On your way out the door, his hand briefly clutches for yours, tracing a sardonic plea into your knuckles.

_Don’t leave._

You rip your hand loose, shut the door, and walk away. You sleep over at Nichole and Victor’s and remember what it means to laugh and have fun. You spend the following day with them and return home much later that night, although reluctantly. Your heart stops when you notice the door is ajar.

He wouldn’t be able to escape, would he? Regardless, you ease your way into your apartment. Nothing seems out of the ordinary, except some things have been moved. You tiptoe to your bedroom and flick the light on. You gasp when the phantom comes into view right in the middle of your room. He turns around from his rummaging through your draws, and he’s not the ghost. The stranger is dressed in black, hauling a backpack, and wielding a knife that glints at your eye.

You jolt to action when he growls and sprints for you. He’s quick, snatching at your hair and jerking you around to a stop. A shrill cry burns your throat, forcing the man to flinch.

“Shut up—”

His poised knife never makes it into your flesh; no, instead, a ghostly hand spears through the man’s chest. There is no blood, for there isn’t a wound in sight, but his life is gone regardless. You watch the hand wrench away from the body, ripping away a black mass with identical qualities as the phantom with it. That’s when you glance toward your unlikely savior who has been taunting you. You are wrong to believe he was terrifying before: he is the epitome of hatred and fury. He’s blacker than black, heaving like a beast, and, to your shock, there are red eyes as the only visible feature within the swirling darkness of the hood. The slits heighten the staggering aura wafting from him, and you curl within yourself.

“ _Begone_.” The single word is pure venom.

He squeezes the blackness in his hand until it falls apart in smoky ribbons, hits the floor and dissipates to nothing. You watch in horror as the body materializes away in the same manner, leaving the clothes and items behind as the only evidence of the man ever existing. The dark figure suddenly roars his anger out, a simultaneous ear-splitting slice and rumbling bellow that sparks your electricity dead, leaving you in the dark, which is beginning to become a familiar setting.

You wait, anxious and wondering if he will finally kill you. You’re wild when his arms vine around you, cradling you into his ghostly form and lifting you from the floor. He’s now frighteningly serene, acting like he wasn’t furious just seconds ago. In the dimness, the phantom is more solid than ever before, neither constricting his arms nor releasing you. He hums a tuneless lullaby, shushing into your ear until you still.

“Hush now, you’re safe.”

The adrenaline leaks away, replaced with tears, in which your savior kisses away. You can’t decide what kind of relief it is that you cry from—is it relief that he’s saved you, relief that you’re alive, relief that he isn’t as evil as you assumed? Whatever reason it may be, this moment of cathartic release lightens your heart. That night, he blankets you with his body as you sleep.

The clothes and knife are gone, and your belongings are stored to their rightful places. You aren’t as averse to the ghostly touches as your previously were, although it took you time to welcome them. He gives you peace throughout the day and even during your dreams. Sometimes he embraces you as you go about your nightly chores, adhering your body like your own cloak. It doesn’t take long for you to figure that he enjoys appearing most when you’re in bed. He takes pleasure combing your hair and simply holding you.

One night he brazenly grasps for your thighs, intimately pressing against your back as he always does. You fidget, batting his hands away. You’ve built a strange trust with this supernatural being and you don’t want to go back to cowering from it.

“Stop,” you whisper.

He nudges you on your back, covering you, and says into your pulse, “Why?” You have no answer, so he resumes his loving strokes. “Haven’t I been patient enough? Kind enough?”

“Why are you even doing this, why me?” That makes him pause.

“Even I surprise myself. My kind are as old as the earth, meant to exist as creatures of evil. Yet the longer I persisted my game with you, the faster my resolve crumbled away. Do you have any sense as to how wrathful I was seeing that foul human attempt to hurt you? I thought to let him be, let him destroy himself from his own deeds, and then you waltzed in.” He grabs your shoulders, lifting you a hands-width above your mattress. “I suddenly couldn’t bear to see you turn into a lost spirit. Perhaps I was jealous, perhaps I wanted to turn you myself,” he admits, settling you back down, “but then I can never feel your warmth again.”

You recoil, thinking yourself an idiot for believing he might harbor the tiniest sliver of good in him. He keeps you still when you begin to escape, planting his forehead to yours, his hood tickling your hairline.

“I tired of haunting and torturing the evil humans, so I thought to play with someone whose soul wasn’t as black. I settled for you by chance. Before I could stop myself, a drop of your goodness tainted me, leaving me impure. I am no longer wholly evil. Now I understand why my kind despised and cowered from the light, not only because it could destroy us to nothing, but because it would save us, and we evil wraiths are not meant to be anything but. What have you done to me?”

You can say nothing, only breathe and stare into red eyes. They make rare appearances, but when they do, you can’t help but imagine them as garnets. You can only think of one question.

“What’s your name?”

He doesn’t speak for a moment, whether from hesitation or contemplation. “Gasouel, call me Gasouel.”

* * *

“Have you always liked your apartment this cold?” Nichole asks, shivering as she does so.

You hardly notice the temperature now. You only shrug in response, cleverly placing a drink in front of your friend to distract her.

“Any colder and you might turn this place into a freezer,” Victor laughs good-naturedly, while patting your shoulder and giving you a playful shake.

You open your mouth to quip a remark but freeze when Gasouel appears behind Victor and phases through the unsuspecting man. A violent shudder rakes through his body.

“Fuck, that was a bad one,” he mumbles, shoving his hands into his pockets before making his way to cuddle next to his girlfriend currently swathed in one of your spare blankets.

You toss a glare to the wraith who is quite unapologetic.

* * *

Later that night when the clock hits midnight, you lecture the idle wraith.

“I told you to leave them alone,” you hiss.

He grabs your face and rubs his forehead on yours. “I would never hurt them; I know how much you care for them.”

It’s a bit odd to see him jealous. You suppose it will just be another facet to accommodate to, along with his affectionate inclinations. A couple months have passed by since the day he saved you. You still have trouble overcoming the disappearance of the burglar. While you never even touched the man, you feel you’ve played an indirect part in his death. After all, Gasouel had killed him for your sake. If not for you, he’d still be alive. Although, recently, you find it hard to pity the man. In fact, while your ghostly companion did destroy his soul, it saved him from suffering the fate of becoming a wraith and saved the world from the existence of another dark creature.

That aside, you’re convinced Gasouel will leave one of these days, either from boredom or in fear of losing his entire purpose as a being of evil. If he stays long enough, you wonder what will happen to him when you’re gone.

“What are you thinking?” His question brings you back to the present.

“It’s…nothing,” you say, extracting yourself from him.

Displeased, he flies to stop you from walking away. “You can tell me,” and he pairs this with a kiss to the corner of your mouth.

You still shy away from any affections, not having such devout attention since your last relationship, which was well over two years ago. Gasouel knows this, too, spurring his efforts.

“Come now, don’t be shy,” he whispers, hugging you close.

You relent. “Will you ever leave me?” Immediately, you regret your choice of words—you sound as if you don’t want him to.

“Do you want me to?” he asks, more amused than troubled.

“I don’t know—”

He chuckles. “That’s enough for reconsideration.”

And you blush. If you want him to leave, you wouldn’t be unsure. Even the smallest amount of hesitation is proof that you do want him to stay, regardless how insignificant that wish is now.

“I was afraid of you for a long time, and then you saved me. You’ve proved to be good, even if that only pertains to me. I won’t lie, I’ve come to enjoy you being with me, whatever this is. But how long are you going to stay? I know for a fact you wouldn’t want to stay forever.”

“And if I want to stay forever?”

You laugh a humorless huff. “I won’t live that long.”

“You think I would be sad if I stayed and watched you grow until your death?”

“I—I’m not implying that—”

“You are,” but you can hear the smile in his words, an impish one at that.

Growing frustrated, you cut to the point, not wanting to suffer a bout of taunting from him. “What I mean to say is, you’re wasting your time with me. There’s no point in staying with someone who will just ruin what you’re supposed to be.”

“You want me to continue my villainous deeds?”

“Damn it, Gasouel, no! I just…I don’t really know what I’m trying to say anymore.” You turn to leave but are swept into his arms before even taking a step.

“I would stay with you whether it meant the end of my existence or not. I have wasted centuries wandering and tormenting. Staying with you, even if I were to lose you, is worth more than continuing living on as a wraith. Don’t you have any hope that I have a chance of dying with you?”

You laugh. “Who would have known you could be such a romantic?”

“Is it so bad?”

“No.”

“Is it so bad that I stay, regardless what may happen?”

He makes you look into his eyes. It never occurs to you that he may be tired, and he’s only just realized because of you. “No,” you say.

“Then I’ll stay right where I am.”

* * *

When Nichole asks if you’ll ever date again, you merely shrug, glancing at Gasouel who lazily circles you as you slice some vegetables. You’ve grown used to his invasion. Victor makes some teasing remark you can’t even remember because you must hold onto the wraith’s cloak to prevent him from maiming the poor man’s soul. Gasouel still hasn’t warmed up to Victor.

You don’t think dating will prove to be wise, not with your embarrassing attraction for your ghostly companion that grows by the day and not with Gasouel’s possessive streak charging out when a man sends any form of flirtation your way (yes, you discover he can roam outside your apartment). You think it’s impossible to pursue a relationship with him, so you might have to convince him to back down when you go soul searching. He doesn’t ever give you the chance to consider another human partner, he doesn’t even give you a chance to approach him about the subject for that matter.

You don’t recall how it happens, but one moment you’re debating relieving some sexual tension since Gasouel has been out of sight and quieter than usual, and then another moment, just as you’re carefully playing with the seam of your panties, a force rams into you.

“Have you become my tormentor now?” Gasouel hums into your ear, a teasing lilt touching his voice.

Your face lights on fire and you squirm. “W-what?”

“You think I haven’t noticed, did you? You couldn’t be more obvious with your blatant staring and the longing on your pretty face. I suppose I am at fault for depriving you any human touch, but why settle for that when you have me?”

_Oh._

Despite the mischievous tone, you can tell he’s been restraining himself. For how long, you don’t know. You must have looked at him the right way because you’re suddenly on your back in bed and watching with fascination as he molds himself a mouth, which he doesn’t waste time to finally press against yours. His kiss is ravenous and fervent, tasting you with wicked maneuvers of his tongue. Gasouel’s touch isn’t anything new, but unlike before, they can’t even compare to the strength and desperation of his hands now.

It doesn’t take long to divest you of your clothes. You shiver from the caressing silk of his cloak that’s a part of him. He may have waited exceptionally well for this moment, but he doesn’t have the patience to go through foreplay, and neither do you. He cups your soaking heat, stroking you just to rouse a moan of complain for the fun of it. Before you can vocalize your impatience, Gasouel fits himself between your legs, and you feel a part of him that wasn’t there before. You encourage him with a hasty nod, and he has you gasping and tearing your sheets in seconds. Your orgasm is mind-blowing, and you don’t doubt it’s from Gasouel’s otherworldly effect.

He fucks you twice after. The second time, he takes all the time he wants. His mouth explores your body, suckling for violet marks, tasting for gasps of delight, and biting for that one whimper he favors. You watch him feast on you, tonguing his way deep inside and pulling an earth-shattering finish that leaves you boneless. You return the favor, thrilled by the growls and moans reverberating from him. He doesn’t let you finish him off, far too eager to feel your core bring him home. He grinds his hips in a fashion so dexterous, you’re motivated to meet him with your own rolling. Seeing you bucking underneath him really hits him. He drags you atop him and makes you ride him hard. Gasouel comes with a roar so loud your lights flicker on for a second. It doesn’t take him long to recover.

The third round is just a frenzy of positions he can pull you into: on your back, on your knees, in the air. He pistons into your sopping heat without mercy, wrenching silent screams from your sore throat. He discovers bringing your legs over his shoulder allows him to reach deeper, and he becomes lethal when he decides to rub hard circles into your red, twitching clit while his hips bruise yours. You’re glad he stops after this, or you might not be able to walk tomorrow.

Come morning, he’s still there. One taste and he can’t seem to have enough. At one point, the reality and insanity of it all makes you laugh while he makes you see stars with his powerful thrusting. He doesn’t find it as funny as you do, all too consumed with absorbing your warmth and listening to your blood pound underneath his ears. When you realize you love him, it’s the exact moment when he stops for a second to look far into your eyes. He must realize it, too, because his intent slows to a tender passion. He moves with deliberation, wanting to memorize this moment and every part of it. The two of you are closer than ever, not an inch of space existing between your bodies as he lays atop you and brings you your completion. Gasouel smothers you to him that night.

* * *

Nichole notices a difference about you. You smile because he kisses your cheek, unseen by the woman. Mom initially worries about your lack of boyfriend, translating to the lack of a husband, but if you’re content then she is (although, she would really want to see some grandchildren running around and to spoil rotten). When Nichole marries Victor, not once are you envious. You catch the bouquet and laugh. Gasouel makes love to you that night, absently tracing your ring finger in the afterglow. The passionate nights eventually stop, but you hardly mind. Being with him is more than enough. He still holds you every night while you sleep, even as you lay in the crisp whiteness of a hospital bed at the age of eighty. He tells you he loves you while the sun is high. His existence doesn’t even waver in the light. You return the words and close your eyes just for a moment. A warm hand touches your cheek, and when you open your eyes, you see a man.

“I always knew you were handsome,” you say.

He laughs, and his smile is exactly as you imagined.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> © 2018 backstage_rebel_girl  
> constructive criticism is appreciated. thank you for reading.


	2. illustrations




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